


Thanks for the Memories Vol. III

by bereniceofdale_archive (bereniceofdale)



Series: Thanks for the Memories [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Memory Loss, Set in Middle-Earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4414862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereniceofdale/pseuds/bereniceofdale_archive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Thanks for the Memories Alternative Vol. II" would be more correct, as this is a fix-it to the story I wrote for the 'Person B making a deal to save Person A’s life at the cost of all their memories together' prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanks for the Memories Vol. III

**Author's Note:**

> I promised I would write it, so here it is!  
> I couldn't leave Bard like that now could I? 
> 
> THIS IS FOR YOU KAL' 
> 
> Thanks once again to SomewhatByronically for editing this work ♥

The past fourteen months had to be the worst of Bard's life. Getting through each day with a part of your heart and soul missing was no easy task, especially when everyone and everything reminded you of who and what you had lost. Of course he knew what it felt like; he had already felt it when his wife had died. He knew of that kind of grief, for he had lived with it long enough. But here, here it was different.

Thranduil was not dead. Not really.

He still walked the earth, the paths of his lands and his halls. His presence still lightened every room he walked in; his deep voice still resonated on the walls and made Bard wish he could hear it get softer again to speak of love and stars instead of taxes and borders.

Yes, Thranduil was alive and well; he just couldn't find the way back to Bard's broken heart.

Maybe it was him who was dead in some way, in the end; maybe that had been the true price to pay, with nothing he could do to forget about his beloved.

Bard saw him in the saddened looks their children gave him each time they came across one of Thranduil's belongings, or when he had to meet him for political reasons. He hated it whenever they found him crying on their bed, in his study or in the corner of a room, offering him shoulders to cry on and words of understanding. He hated it, for a father's pain shouldn't be his children's burden. After all, though he had lost a husband and a lover, their children had lost a father. Bard tried, as much as he could, not to let them see and, despite his own suffering, was always there for them; they were grown up now, but still they needed him, just as much as he needed them.

He saw him in the letters they had exchanged over the years, that he couldn't bring himself to throw away. It was painful to read them again, but it was also all he had left, along with the memories. He found some sort of comfort in them, in the words of love they had sent each other to fill the days they couldn't spend together.

Worse than all that were the meetings he couldn't escape from. There, when he could actually see him, in flesh and blood. There was a bit of consolation in this though; Thranduil was alive. It was better, and worse all the same. Rarely had he been in more pain than those days when they had had to discuss politics for hours and hours and hours that seemed to never end. And each minute, each second of it was its own pain; he had stopped counting how many times he had excused himself and left early to cry all the tears his eyes could manage to shed in the shadows of his rooms, sometimes not even reaching them before he let himself fall against a wall.

He saw him in his people's face. All had known. And all kept the secret, watching their King's pain from afar and wishing there was something, anything, they could do about it. Even King Thorin had tried to offer support, sending him apologetic glances when Bard struggled to hide his discomfort in Thranduil's presence.

But what had been the worst of all was the morning when Bard had woken up to the confused and shocked face of his lover staring right through his soul without actually seeing him. How all he could say to explain why they were laying in the same bed, bodies pressed closed and holding hands in strong grips, was that they had _too much wine_. It hadn't made much sense, given the bloodied bandages covering Thranduil's flawless chest. Yet that had been the only explanation he was able to give Thranduil, and the one everyone confirmed.

That had hurt the most; the first look unfilled of the love that had prospered in it for fourteen years; how the Elvenking had inched out of their bed and looked embarrassed, apologizing for such unkingly behaviour. How he called him 'King Bard' and only had formal words to offer him. Nothing had ever felt more wrong; nothing had ever hurt so much.

But, despite all his pain, Bard didn't let go. He was a King and a Father, and he had to act as such. He couldn't help breaking down when things were more difficult, when the loss became too heavy on his mind, but never did he allow himself to let his sorrow put him down enough as to prevent him from doing what people expected him to do. 

Nights were made for that.

There was a knock on the door, making Bard jump in his chair as he was abruptly brought back to reality.

“Da.” Sigrid peeked her head through the threshold of his study as Bard looked up from his papers, sending him a worried gaze. “Ada—Thranduil's here.”

Bard's eyes widened in an odd mix of surprise and horror. He got up quickly, almost getting his feet caught in his chair's leg as he did so.

“Thran?” He barely heard his own voice as he joined his daughter near the door, squeezing her arm lightly. “What is he doing here?”

“I don't know.” Sigrid shook her head, putting her hand on her father's shoulder. “He's alone, and looks troubled, as far as I can say.”

“He's asked to speak with you.” She bit her bottom lip, winced. “Privately.”

Bard inhaled deeply, nodded slowly before he turned to put some order back on his desk. In other circumstances he would have refused; he always said no to Thranduil's invitations. And the Valar knew how many times the Elvenking had offered to share a glass of wine with him.

Why not try again, many would have asked. After all, they could still have fifteen to twenty years together, if Bard was lucky. But Bard knew how Thranduil courted, he had witnessed it and accepted it. He could see it on Thranduil's face; this was no courting, just formalities that could be avoided. The only thing that interested him was to know why the King of Dale acted so oddly in his presence, without doubt.

As for starting again? It didn't sound right, more like a lie to make himself feel better. He didn't want to create new memories in order to replace the old ones. Thranduil wouldn't want that either, he knew so.

“Thank you darling.” Bard sent his daughter a reassuring look. “Send him in, I'll be fine.”

She smiled back at him and didn't miss the occasion to kiss his cheek before she left, leaving her father in the silence of his study. His breath sounded much louder to his ears than it should though. He took another deep breath, closed his eyes for a second as he tried to calm the shy shaking of his hands.

When he opened his eyes again, Thranduil stood in the threshold of the room, looking as beautiful and ethereal as ever.

He greeted him in the way of the elves, and Bard bowed his head politely in answer. Yet, the only things he could notice was how the weight in his own heart was heavier than ever, the piece of folded paper that Thranduil was holding with particular care, and the wariness in Thranduil's gaze; a wariness he wasn't supposed to see, but Bard knew Thranduil better than he knew himself. He had learned to be able to tell those things over the years.

And if there was one thing he could tell about Thranduil right now, it was that Sigrid had seen right; something truly troubled him.

“My Lord Thranduil,” Bard said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. “I wasn't expecting your visit.” He held his own hands behind his back, for they would betray his nervousness. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Thranduil took a few more steps into the King's study, refusing to sit in the chair Bard had just gestured him to with a light shake of his head.

“I wished to speak to you, King Bard.”

“Is there anything that requires my attention?” Bard inquired after he had cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the lump that had made its way there upon hearing Thranduil call him so formally once again. “Troubles at the border?”

“No, nothing of the sort.”

To that the Elvenking unfolded the paper and let his eyes linger on whatever was written there.

“I thought you could enlighten me about this,” he said, but made no move to hand Bard the document. “Beautiful words.”

Bard stepped forward, stopping at arm's reach and finally letting his hands fall at his side. “I guess it must be quite important, for you to come here on your own.”

To that Thranduil looked up, locking his icy blue gaze to Bard's hazel. He felt a shiver run down his spine as he welcomed all the doubts that could be seen in the Elvenking's eyes, as well as something, something Thranduil still kept hidden.

“Maybe it is,” he confirmed, extending the paper to Bard. “I guess no one could tell me about that better than you.”

Bard frowned as he took hold of the... the letter? His breath got caught in his throat and his hand started shaking before he could even think about keeping control of it; he had none. It wasn't a document: it was a letter. And not any letter, no; it was his.

“Whe—where did you find this?” was all Bard found to say, unable to stop his voice from sounding much weaker than he wanted it to be. The harder was to keep the tears from forming at the corner of his eyes.

“It was hidden,” Thranduil whispered, just loud enough to be heard. “Somewhere special.”

Bard kept his eyes on the letter and its content. He remembered rewriting it over and over again until he had found it perfect, his handwriting as neat as he had been able to manage. He remembered asking Tilda for advice, for she had always been much better at Elvish than him. He remembered how Thranduil had cried—overwhelmed by emotion—when he had read it, then held him tight and repeated how much he loved him until they had fallen asleep.

He had written it for their tenth anniversary. He had spent weeks on it, trying to word all the things he had ever wished to say. And he had; this letter, it was all the deepness of his love forever on paper.

“It's nothing.” He tried to smile, but kept his gaze down. He couldn't bring himself to look at Thranduil; he feared what he would see in his gaze. “Probably some bad joke.”

“No, it is not.”

Thranduil caught his fist. Bard still didn't look up, didn't try to get away of Thranduil's firm yet gentle grip.

“Bard,” Thranduil called again. Bard stiffened upon hearing his name as he used to: titleless, just... “ _Bard_ , what is it that you're not telling me?”

“Forget about it, my Lord Thranduil.” His voice broke. “It's not worth it.”

“Bard, look at me.” Thranduil's tone was slightly harsher, yet there was some kind of warmth about it. “Look at me right in the eye and repeat to me that it's not worth it.”

After a short moment filled with shaky breaths Bard did so; he looked up from the floor to meet Thranduil's eyes.

And that is when he broke; he couldn't hold back his tears anymore. They just flowed as he saw the desperate need to understand in Thranduil's gaze, as well as a pain he hadn't expected to see; a pain similar to his; the pain of the holes in a heart and soul, yet different, for those holes had been there for a long time. He had known about Thranduil's eternal sorrow years ago. But he hadn't known that they had grown larger and more painful, without meaning, over the past year.

That is what Bard saw in Thranduil's eyes.

“It's complicated,” he whispered, voice shaking. What a pitiful sight he must be; yet he didn't mind. Thranduil may not remember, but they had seen each other at their worst. He just wished Thranduil would hold him like he used to; to soothe his worries and his pain with soft words and touches, kisses upon his forehead.

Gently, Thranduil took the letter back, made him sit on the chair facing his desk (on which he put the paper) and crouched before him, taking both of Bard's hands in his. He inspected them without saying a word, his gaze lingering on the two different wedding rings Bard wore on his fingers; one was cheap, worn and old. The other was as beautiful as the first day. Yet they had the same importance to Bard and he saw none of them with more love than the other.

“I always wondered why you wore two rings, but it never really crossed my mind to ask,” Thranduil said then. “I guess somehow I knew.”

Bard couldn't take his eyes away from Thranduil as his gaze travelled up and up, until it stopped on the thin chain disappearing under Bardd's tunic. His fingers soon followed, and Bard held his breath. He wanted to stop him, but at the same time it was the last thing he wanted. He wasn't even sure of what he wanted exactly; he couldn't think straight. He felt like a spectator to something he could do nothing against.

The die was already cast.

Slowly, Thranduil pulled the chain out, bringing two other rings to daylight. A smaller one that once belonged to Bard’s late wife, and a particularly detailed one he had to take off Thranduil’s finger on that fateful night. Both he had made himself with all his heart.

“Is this mine?” Thranduil asked, inspecting the bigger one of the two with curious, yet sad eyes.

The King of Dale only nodded, wiping his tears with the back of his hand.

“So, in an human way, this is the testament of our—” Thranduil bit his bottom lip, something Bard hadn't seen in months since _it_ had happened, before he finished speaking. “Love?”

“Yes,” Bard whispered, meeting Thranduil's gaze. He knew he shouldn't do this; he knew he should have held back the tears and lie, lie, and lie again. But did it matter now? How could he possibly help himself? How could Thranduil even believe any words of denial Bard could say after reading those words?

Did he even want to keep on lying?

He didn't and he couldn't. Not when Thranduil had this look of genuine sadness, this need to understand and, he could see it with his very own eyes, the wish to remember, despite all the pain it would cause him in the end.

It struck him then.

Thranduil had realized what had been between them; he had made all the connections. He must have; it wasn't difficult with the letter. Yet here he was, despite he knew what fate awaited them, despite being able to avoid it. Why looking for something he didn't know he would miss? Why wasn't he being selfish? Why—?

Oh how stupid it was for him to wonder such a thing; deep down he knew the answer, and he would have done the same.

“You shouldn't try,” Bard breathed, just loud enough to be heard. “It's better this way.”

Bard shivered when Thranduil held his hands again. Their gazes met, and once that was done, Bard knew that neither of them would look away again.

“I never stopped feeling it, you know,” Thranduil said, his tone soft. “That something was off. It was never just about how our people acted, your—our children acted, or you and your pain.”

“Was I so bad at pretending?”

“No.” Thranduil shook his head and smiled sadly. “I told you; I felt it, somehow. I just didn’t know where to look exactly.”

Bard opened his mouth, but Thranduil put a finger on his lips.

“I know and understand why you did it. Why we thought it would be for the best.” His fingers then wandered to Bard's cheek, wiping out the last of the tears just as others were forming at the corner of his eyes. “But I've never felt more empty than this past year, just as I've never felt closer to being complete than I am now.”

He stopped, watching fondly as Bard leant into his touch.

“And if seeing, feeling you in such pain is the price to pay for an eternity unfilled of happy memories with you, then I don't want it.”

“How can you say? You don't rem—”

“It is true, I don't,” Thranduil cut him off, his sad smile still playing on his lips. “But that letter, it tells everything. I shared those words and I feel them, from everywhere around us to deep into my soul; I feel them filling its holes and healing its wounds. I know, more than anything, that what we had was worth it, because _I love you_.”

To that Bard didn't answer anything. He just felt as if his heart was going to burst out of his chest; he wanted to cry and smile at the same time. And he did: his face broke into the biggest, truest smile he had yet to offer over the past fourteen months, just as he let slow tears run down his cheeks.

But those tears were different; they were filled with hope.

His hands went to hold Thranduil's head as he let their foreheads meet, their breaths mixing once again after so long, their eyes so close they could see everything inside each other's, swirling deep in a neverending stream of emotions. Neither of them said a thing, for all had already been said. Unless maybe, just...

“May I—?” Thranduil whispered, and Bard knew what he meant.

“Please.”

In the fraction of second that followed it wasn't Thranduil's lips that were first upon his; he leant forward, closed his eyes and kissed his beloved: gentle and soft, yet passionate and desperate. Soon enough Thranduil's hands were cupping his head as well, and he was kissing back, almost shyly but just as needy of Bard's touch.

Yet, there was something more: there was an added wetness to his own, putting a salty taste on his lips; Thranduil was crying, and it made it all so much more real. It felt as if the pieces were finally being put back together, as they were meant to.

Bard opened his eyes just as Thranduil did so, and he saw it; he saw that familiar light in Thranduil's gaze. A flame revived. The flame they had cherished and never let die until they had been given no other choice. It was back, stronger than ever before, and unwilling to ever fade again.

The smile Bard was rewarded with held no more sorrow; it was just love, true and pure.

It was a sight Bard had thought he would never see again, and the most beautiful he had ever been offered. A sight which he had never forgotten, which had helped go through each day without Thranduil by his side. He had clung into it as if his life had depended on it.

“Meleth nìn?”

Bard only looked at Thranduil, guessing what he would say; he had known from the second they had broke apart and let their gazes meet again. He kissed the corner of his lover's mouth, unable to prevent his tears of joy from flowing as he brought his husband in a tight embrace, wishing he would never, ever have to let him go.

“Thank you,” Thranduil breathed against Bard's ear. “For the memories.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this fix-it healed your poor hearts. Let me know?  
> As always your comments mean the world to me <3


End file.
